Roger, That, or How I Stopped Worrying About Being Breastless

Late September 2014, when I had my breasts removed all I could see was this big ugly scar across my chest.

As women we are valued for our breasts.  Big ones. Small ones.  Regardless of a man's personal preference, women are often considered sexual beings first, and as friends, wives and daughters second. If we have something on top, we are taught to take a certain pride in that.  And if we are more on the flat side, we are given the message that we are somehow lacking in overall desirability.

Because of the residual puritanical overtones regarding breasts, they are considered sexual and not merely functional. There is an uproar when mothers attempt to breastfeed in public.  Men can go shirtless in public and women cannot.  A woman's breasts identify her as a human female in a way that no other part of  a woman's anatomy does.  If I were a man, I'd be able to go about shirtless in the summer and no one would think twice about it.  A neighbor does just that. All summer long he mows his lawn and does other things with his tremendous beer belly hanging out.  If I were to have done that pre double mastectomy, I am guessing neighbors would have yelled at me and perhaps would have called the police.  Post double mastectomy I am guessing I'd receive similar complaints.

Men think nothing about ogling breasts, but no one would want to see my chest, even in its current, nonsexual state.

There have been  times when I have looked at myself in the mirror, and have thought about what a freak show I have become.  I am reminded daily that I look different from other women. Every time I look at Kid O and Kid Q, I am reminded.  Every time I see a woman showing off cleavage I am reminded. Every time I see any woman I am reminded.   Even some women like a flat chested friend of ours who used to say to me, "I sure wish I had some of that," has more there than me.  Hell, even most men do.

One of my husband's cousins turned to me at a funeral luncheon and said, "I thought you were flat like me, " upon hearing another cousin come up to me and congratulate me on beating the cancer rap.  Highly ironic coming from a recently retired desk sergeant.  True, we only saw each other at wakes and funerals, but you'd think she would have noticed the massive breasts that were in front of her on those occasions.   I doubt a man would have forgotten.

I recall many times when I could see that a man was staring at my breasts. Bespectacled men really ought to be more aware of that because the images reflect in their lenses.  Being ogled like that is certainly one thing I don't miss.

Months ago my husband told me that, without my breasts and with my big belly hanging out, that I looked a bit like Roger, the alien who resides with the Smith family in American Dad!

One might think that remark would be grounds for divorce, but, instead, I thought about it for a moment and responded, "Roger, that."

That doesn't mean I haven't grieved the loss of my breasts.  It simply means I have finally come to a place of acceptance.  Do I still feel self conscious about my body image?  Yes.  Many women do.  It's ingrained in our culture.

Although I still have moments of anger and grief, overall I feel less and less like a freak show and more like myself.

So, Roger that.

The Old And The Breastless

Now that I've had scar revision surgery meant to smooth out what was left over from my double mastectomy, I have been wondering if I should still do something artistic. I know that some women choose to have elaborate designs tattooed on their chest. I have seen one, and it was quite stunning.   I've been told that some women simply have nipples tattooed on their chest.  That strikes me as a trifle odd. Occasionally I feel inclined to give into my dark sense of humor and have "Insert Breasts Here," written across my chest.

Unlike most other cancers where the results  are internal, there is no denying that I have had something removed.  One does not go from carrying around 44I breasts to entirely flat and not have it be traumatic. Although the proper medical term is double mastectomy, it ought to be considered a double amputation. The more sterile medical term denies the emotional impact in a way that the phrase "double amputation" does not. While I certainly would not compare losing a breast to losing a limb, the removal is just as upsetting from a physical and psychological standpoint. As I have written previously,  I had hoped some day for breast reduction.  Not breast redaction.

Granted, I could have kept my right breast as the cancer had not spread to it.  But that would have meant months walking around with a prosthetic breast on my left side while I finished up my herceptin treatments.  When the plastic surgeon told me that breast reconstruction would require eight hours of surgery, that sealed it for me.  There was no way I was going through that.

More importantly, I had spent time in the chemo chair sitting next to women who had a recurrence of breast cancer because they only had one breast or part of one breast removed.  I decided right then I was going to do whatever it takes to keep that from happening.
When I consulted with the  surgeon about scar revision surgery,  I finally asked him why I had these skin flaps under my arms.  He told me that they had the highly technical term of  "dog ears,"  and that it was actually skin from my back.  I suppose that when you are flabby that is something you end up with.  Even after scar revision surgery, I still have some of that skin under my arms.  I suspect that insurance would not pay for yet another surgery, and, even if it did, I would likely decide to just live with this oddness, because, say it with me, it still beats the alternative.

Evidently my back hasn't received the memo that I no longer have breasts.  My ribs still rotate in towards my spine.  Apparently my breasts on such a short frame needed extra accommodation.  Sometimes it feels as if someone is jabbing me with a thumb.  Or hammering a peg.  I go in for adjustments, but that only provides temporary relief.  At least I know what it is.  Does hinder one of my most favorite activities, which is taking long walks.

Sometimes my skin feels so tight that I have to remind myself to buckle up when I get in the car because it already feels as if I am wearing a shoulder strap.  I have to remind myself that chest pain I feel is entirely superficial. Literally only skin deep.

Occasionally people hug me too enthusiastically.  Since I no longer have padding, my breastbone and cartilage feel all the impact.  Perhaps someone ought to write a pamphlet about how to hug a woman who has undergone a double mastectomy.  I often find myself having to remind people that they can't squeeze me as tight as they once did, although I am grateful that they are truly happy to see me.

It is a strange feeling to be thinking please don't hurt me when someone reaches out to hug me.  I still enjoy receiving hugs, especially what I call big ol' bear hugs.  I enjoy the closeness.  I just wish folks, including my husband, would be gentler.  Kind of ruins the moment when I have to say, "Not so hard."

Keep those hugs coming.  Just remember that the woman you are embracing is one of the old and the breastless.

A Farewell To Breasts

I no longer have breasts.  When I had breasts, I used to imagine doing a stand up routine about them.  Being the anti Phyllis Diller.  I even imagined laughing like she did. "A ha. A ha.  A ha ha ha ha."  Jokes about how my breasts were so large that they entered  a room five minutes before the rest of me did.  How they used to hit me in the face if I wasn't careful when I rolled over in bed.  (That really happened a few times.)

I've had breasts since I was ten. Or so it seems.  I remember being with my mom at Montgomery Ward's to buy a training bra.  I remember thinking how ugly it was.  I have a distinct memory of being three or four and seeing my mom's naked breasts, and her saying, "I hope you never get as big as me." My paternal grandma was also large breasted.  It was inevitable.

I don't remember being flat chested.  I went from nothing to 34D.  I never really could  wear a blouse.  They always gapped somewhere.  Things only got worse when I got married and gained weight.  Two pregnancies later, I weighed slightly over two hundred pounds.  Part of that weight was that I had gone from 34D to 38D to 44I.  When I tell nurses and others post mastectomy that I was once 44I, they are amazed.  I am only 5'2" and small boned.  When I saw my oncologist after the surgery, she pointed out to me that I was still slouching.

When the oncologist starting laying out my treatment plan at the end of May, she did not mince words.  Chemo. Double mastectomy.  End of story.  She has since added radiation.  She also changed it from a double mastectomy to a single mastectomy and reconstructive surgery.

I chose a double mastectomy for the simple reason I didn't want to deal with the awkwardness of prosthetic breasts, especially when it became clear that there would be months between radiation and a second surgery.

Part of me was relieved about it, because I had been so top heavy for so many years.  Part of me was sad. Sad that my left breast had cancer.  Sad that my right breast had to be unfairly taken.  Angry after the fact when the oncologist told me that the tumor had shrunk to 5 mm.   Why did my breasts have to be removed at all?  Of course they had no way to know that until after the fact.

Even though I knew the double mastectomy had to happen, I never said a proper farewell.  Perhaps it should have been some ritual.  Perhaps alone.  Perhaps involving my husband.

I used to imagine conversations between my breasts and me, the right one complaining that it wasn't fair.  I was trying to explain as best as I could why it had to happen.  Not really believing my own explanations.

Perhaps I should have kept my appointment with the plastic surgeon, but ended up in the ER with an anxiety attack instead.  Perhaps she would have discussed the benefit of a single mastectomy versus a double.  Perhaps now I'd be discussing reconstructive surgery and not scar revision instead, but, then again, maybe it would not have made a difference.

I went into the hospital for same day surgery.  I woke up shortly after surgery with four drains dangling down, two on each side.  I hadn't expected that. Was a small detail the surgeon forgot to mention to me.

I knew the purpose of  the double mastectomy was to remove both my breasts and any lymph nodes that were necessary. I had even seen pictures of a woman after a double mastectomy.   I just hadn't seen ME after a double mastectomy.

The following day when my dressing was changed, I was astonished by what my chest looked like.  All those staples.  Skin protruding from below my armpits, where I hadn't expected it.  And no breasts.  Only an indication of where they had once been.  I kept my shock to myself.

Before I left the hospital, the really wonderful male nurse made a binder that fit around my dressing and which allowed us to pin up the drains.  Made it much easier for me to go to the bathroom, as it kept the drains from dangling between my legs.  Made it easier to sleep, too.

I was pleased with myself.  Several trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  I was walking fine.  Then a bit before 7 AM, a shift occurred.  I felt pain above the dressing.  I laid back down in bed.  I needed my husband to hold my hand as I walked to the bathroom.

I dreamt that I was asleep in my bed.  I awakened to my husband speaking to me.  Much to my surprise I was lying on the living room floor.  He helped me up and led me to the side of my bed.  I called the surgeon's office.  I  was told that the surgeon wasn't there, but that his colleague was.  We were given a choice.  Come to the office or go to the ER.

I wanted to call an ambulance.  My husband wanted to drive me all the way to either the professional building or the ER.  I saw his point, but I was apprehensive.  He got our housemate.  She helped me get into a chair on the porchlift, while he drove the car onto the sidewalk.  I got safely into the car, and we were on our way to the surgeon's office.

I spent the better part of the day lying on a gurney in an ER examination room.  I either was being wheeled to and from tests or lying there alone.  At least the tests showed that I hadn't had a pulmonary embolism as the ER doctor suspected.  Based upon what the nurse would tell me, the ER doctor and the surgeons were discussing me.  As I suspected,.I  needed a second surgery.  But first I had to be given the first of three transfusions I'd receive over three days, as my hemoglobin was low.

The anesthesiologist, who had been present for the double mastectomy, was yet again standing over me as I lied on a gurney.  He sang "5'2", eyes of blue, has anybody seen my gal?"  I told him that my eyes were brown.  Then I sang along with him.  He knew more of the song than me, so I gave up and listened.  I told the nurses that since he was the one putting me out that I needed to be nice to him.

"I don't want to see you again," the anesthesiologist said, as I woke up in recovery.  I told him the feeling was mutual, except perhaps when I returned for reconstructive surgery.  I think he was amenable to that.

Months from now, after my chest wall has healed from radiation, I will have scar revision surgery.  Given what the plastic surgeon told me about reconstructive surgery, I have decided that it is better to have no breasts than to go through all of that rigmarole.

Even though this is my choice, I wonder if I will ever get used to having no breasts.  Although  my  breasts didn't define me as a woman, they still were a, pardon the pun, large part of me.  My breasts connected me to women who came before me.   And now my daughter have breasts.

I still feel complete, and yet I still feel bereft of what cancer has robbed from me.  I would have preferred breast reduction.  Instead I am left with breast redaction.  Perhaps some day I will be at peace with all of this, but right now I have to adapt to a life without breasts.